


Out Of Focus

by ajarofgoodthings



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, altered family tree, mary's mother is margaret tudor her uncle is henry viii tudor, this is my favourite sandbox i have 40 aus thank u goodnight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-29 01:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12619560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajarofgoodthings/pseuds/ajarofgoodthings
Summary: It starts at her Uncle’s hotel opening.Well - it starts before that, probably, any psychologist would probably place it somewhere between a dead dad and a power-hungry womanizer of a pseudo-father figure, but, well -She meets him at her Uncle’s hotel opening.





	Out Of Focus

It starts at her Uncle’s hotel opening.

Well - it starts before that, probably, any psychologist would probably place it somewhere between a dead dad and a power-hungry womanizer of a pseudo-father figure, but, well -

She meets him at her Uncle’s hotel opening.

 

* * *

 

 

“Can I buy you a drink?”

He’s tall; broad in the shoulders but cut lean, almost a swimmer’s body but not quite lithe enough - the way he leans into her makes her think of waltzing, maybe a tango. And he’s definitely way too old for her - his hair is buzzed short but she can still see the grey in it, in the longer stubble along the cut of his jaw, around his mouth, lips plush and - capable.

He’s got to be at least fifty.

But his suit is plaid.

It’s tailored perfectly to him, to the line of his shoulders cut into his hips - it’s black-navy-blue, matching tie tucked in a pristine white dress shirt, collar starched against the tan of his neck. His loafers are a shining black leather - and he’s definitely, definitely too old for her.

And the thing is, Mary gets drinks for free; tonight’s bartenders are the same ones that work every one of her Uncle’s events and they’ve been mixing her Old Fashioned’s since she was sixteen - but he’s close enough that she can smell the clean-sharp of spearmint and gin, cutting into the warm and sweet of his cologne; cinnamon, she thinks - and, well…

She hasn’t got a real reason _not_ to.

“Sure,”

He grins at her, teeth a perfect, straight white line, and the dark of his eyes catches bright in the twinkle lights her Uncle had had hung in the lobby, trying to connect to the youth by a cursory Pinterest click.

He doesn’t even ask her what she wants before he’s off, and there’s a swagger in his hips that sends Mary’s eyebrows to her hairline, considering the particularly impeccable tailoring of the suit to his ass. Cause, like, _really_.

Mary’s a serial monogamist, though - she falls in love a lot; long before she falls in bed, and this guy, this man, he definitely, definitely just wants to take her to bed. But, _surely,_ there can’t be anything wrong with letting him flirt with her, just for a little bit.

And it’s surprisingly easy - to talk to him, to flirt with him, to touch his arm and let him catch her hand and duck her head just enough to show the pretty blush that bursts along her neck and cheeks when he compliments her dress. She knows she looks good in it; it was as good as made for her, and she and the girls spent hours getting ready before this. She’s swathed in thick black fabric cut to hang just right along all her curves - she knows exactly how good her cleavage is in this bra, because this is exactly what she’d bought it for, she knows how the slit in the front of the skirt shows of the tan expanse of her leg. She knows.

But he considers her at length - his eyes drift shamelessly from the perfectly-mussed curls pinned over her shoulder to follow her collarbones, linger on her chest, catch at the cut of her hips, all the way down to six-inch black stilettos - and his tongue presses between his lips every time his eyes come back up; it’s predatory, almost. She feels like she’s being sized up; and he bought her a Cosmo, then buys her another; both too sweet and a little bit offensive, but she drinks them anyway as she watches his fingers twist along the glass stem of his martini glass and his tongue curl to catch the olive he pulls from the plastic-clear toothpick, the gear-catch lock in the back of his jaw as he bites down - so she’s sizing him up too, maybe. She’s not being hunted.

Not without permission, at least. Because she’s definitely, definitely leaning into him - close enough to let him catch her perfume, she  _knows_ doing more than playing along.

He’s wearing a massive silver Rolex alongside a signet ring, pressed onto his pinky finger like it’s never been anywhere else and stamped with a Fleur-de-lis - and he talks with his hands, gesturing this way and that, adjusting the perfect Windsor knot in the neck of his tie; and there’s something hypnotizing to the twist of his fingers, in the turn of his wrist.

He’s dark; all of him, there’s even a hollow of a shadow under the high-cut cheekbones, and his jaw is a box cut, his voice low, weighted from his chest, and -

Mary’s pretty sure she’s drunk.

“I think it’s time for me to switch for water,” she tells him when he’s half-turning to get up from the faux-suede white couch they’ve commandeered to go back to the bar, and when he smirks at her, it’s dangerous. “I have a class in the morning,” she informs him, arching an eyebrow like a dare to argue, and inclines his head, hand tilting to concede the argument before he gestures to a passing penguin-suited waiter balancing a plate of caviar and outrageously fancy crackers.

“Would you grab us two bottles of water? Perrier, if they’ve got it, and - is there anything circlulating that’s more…” he trails off, looking at the platter and then turning back to squint at Mary.

It’s a little offensive. Mary doesn’t feel trashed, she’s not swaying - she’s just a little swimmy, just warm, just too caught up in the way his tongue swipes along his bottom lips with his next breath.

“Nevermind,” he decides, waves his hand in dismissal with all the air of a man used to being obeyed.

There’s something comforting in it - familiar. Mary’s used to powerful men with powerful voices who stand with their feet planted like tree trunks; immovable objects, unstoppable forces, with their backs straight, who fancy themselves new-come kings and keep their chins tilted up to balance the pretend-crown caught around their temples.

It’s the portrait of every man she’s related to; it’s the foil to every man she’s ever dated. The wide way he - Henri - has spread himself over the corner of the couch sets her at ease as much as it puts her on edge, and the hair raises at the nape of her neck as he leans into her.

“Do you like McDonalds?” He asks, and the question is unexpected and absurd and Mary laughs; snorts, really, bringing her hand up to press the back of it to her mouth as he pulls back.

He’s grinning at her again; wider this time, eyes lit like he’s caught in the joke, and Mary shrugs.

“I’m wearing a ball gown,”

“Hardly an answer,” he gives back, and Mary smiles, feels it cut across her face without permission, and shrugs again.

“I - could be talked into chicken nuggets,” she gives, and he nods, pushing himself up from the couch and half-bending at the waist to offer her his hand.

“As you wish,” he says, and she can see the callousing on the inside of his palm; he’s a businessman, that much is obvious, but he’s not any sort of pampered - he seems like the sort to get his hands dirty, told her he likes hunting and drives out to the mountains to hike every time he gets the chance. He’s a father - it had been a passing comment; she’s not sure she was actually supposed to catch it and hadn’t pursued it; but he’s more than this, more than the suit and the gin and the family ring.

And Mary’s used to boys; she’s used to talking to twenty years of history - not fifty, not an entire life. She’s used to being wanted by someone who hasn’t wanted many others, not yet; and the man standing in front of her is experience; an entire lifetime, someone she was supposed to flirt with for half an hour, then giggle about as a 'what if' to her girlfriends.

She takes his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what this is. enjoy.
> 
> feel free to check out the sandbox; http://greenlig-t.tumblr.com


End file.
